


Inspiration

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: There is a number of small things [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Inspiration, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every reverent touch and contrasting hiss of pain is what makes you both who you are. His shadows give way to your darkness and when he smiles, <em>really</em> smiles, it is bright enough to light up your entire world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> For Theodore, you know who you are.

It’s early Sunday morning when this chapter starts. You’re still tangled in the mess of bed sheets from the night before and there is a fresh bruise on your forearm whose origin you are vaguely aware of. When you smile up a the ceiling it’s as if you know something that the world doesn’t, and when you slide out of bed and into a pair of shorts with a little effort, you already see the clear lines and rules of this game being brought to life.

 

You pad down the hall silently, the smell of coffee and the soft crumple of parchment drawing you in by the leash of your own senses. When you peer into the sitting room you spy him there, curled up on the corner of the worn leather sofa, the entirety of his beautiful face pulled down into a solitary frown. It cracks your heart to see him like this, but this is why you are skulking about in the hallway— _Inspiration._

You smile in the waning darkness before you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror on the wall opposite. Sure, your hair is bed-mussed and your eyes are a clear giveaway that you haven’t been awake terribly long, but you haven’t time to care about it now. Your bottom lip is momentarily caged between your own teeth and you find yourself watching him, drinking in the way his spine curves lovingly towards the haphazard stack of parchment in his lap and the way errant curls of dark hair obscure his vision and yet he doesn’t seem to notice. You think he resembles the shadows that he sometimes hides behind; enigmatic, captivating, and alluring. It isn’t that you don’t see these things every time you look at him, because you do; Theodore Nott is an open book and makes habit of wearing his emotions on his sleeves, but this is different somehow. It is as if watching him openly melts your insides just a little bit more than normal, and while you know that there is no one on the planet capable of such a feat if not this watched man himself, it still catches you off guard.  

 

When you step into the room his lips twitch with the faintest of smiles to register that he is aware of your presence—He certainly does not look up, but he still wishes you to know that _he_ knows, you are there. You cross the room and sink down next to him, fingers circling the warm mug of coffee that has been spelled to stay warm and is waiting for you. It never ceases to amaze you precisely _how_ well he knows you. You begin to wonder if it is perhaps your own life that he scribbles at so furiously on those pages; if he has become so astute in his knowledge of you that he can foretell your every move before you even think it. You find yourself smiling around the rim of the mug still resting against your lips and you glance sideways at him and you wonder how in the hell you ever got so lucky. Suddenly he is crumpling another sheet of parchment in frustration and you frown as you watch him. His fingers card haphazardly through dark hair and a frustrated sigh escapes him and it is here, right at this moment when everything changes.  You return the mug in your grasp to the table and shift towards him in your seat. As you lean closer to him your fingers curl around his parchment and quill and you gently pull it from his grasp. “Break time.” You murmur and your arms slide around him and urge him closer. He mutters something under his breath about unruly quills and elusive inspiration and you smile into soft curls of warm hair and your eyes slide closed. His skin is cold against your bare chest and you find the juxtaposition oddly comforting. “Perhaps you’re just not looking in the right places.” You say, in relation to his lost inspiration and he tips back his head to peer suspiciously up at you. “What did you have in mind?” He asks, and behind the suspicion you see things like intrigue and craving.  “Who said I had any at all?” You reply, unable to help yourself. “It so happens that I **do**.” He snaps back as he shifts around and slides a knee over your lap and makes himself at home there. He is now eye-level with you and you can’t stop the grin that curves your mouth upwards. Your hands automatically move to rest on hipbones that are slightly more pronounced than they used to be, which would probably concern you more under different circumstances. You are captivated by the reflection of a flickering candle flame in his dark gaze, his very presence resembles the strongest undertow and you never want to escape it.

 

“Care to enlighten me?” You ask, and a single brow arches up curiously. He shakes his head slowly; defiantly, and you laugh inwardly. His fingers twist in the hair at the nape of your neck and the sting of pain sends jolts of fresh electricity through your entire body. He’s moving suggestively in your lap and you find that it is becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on any one thing for very long. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he had known what you were up to the moment you woke up and had resolved to beat you at your own game. _It wouldn’t be the first time._ “Incorrigible.” You hiss through slightly gritted teeth as you shake your head. Your fingers hook through the belt loops of his jeans and you tug him close until his skin is pressed against your own.

 

Every reverent touch and contrasting hiss of pain is what makes you both who you are. His shadows give way to your darkness and when he smiles, _really_ smiles, it is bright enough to light up your entire world. His nails catch the tender skin between your shoulder blades and it pulls a small growl out of you and then you realize what his plan has been all along.

 

You think you are distracting him from his lack of inspiration but what you don’t realize is that this isn’t distraction at all; this is _him_ showing _you_ your way back home. The realization smacks you in the face and catches you off guard and you find yourself gasping for air you hadn’t realize you were missing.  When your gaze finds his he is watching you and wearing a satisfied and gentle smile. Your lips part to say words that your throat cannot process. He really does know you better than you know yourself. “Welcome home.” He murmurs and then he leans in close and kisses you. Your head is swimming in words and emotions and you find yourself clinging to him in every way that you possibly can. He will never cease to amaze you and you think that he knows that, even if you don’t say it aloud.

 

His kiss is the first of a long line that leads across your jaw and down the column of your throat. Your head drops back obediently as his tongue dips inside your jugular notch and you cannot hide the shaky sigh that escapes you. His fingers are everywhere as if they are intent on reacquainting themselves with every inch of you for the sake of doing so. In mere moments your range of emotion jumps from elated to desperate. Yes, he is **that** capable. You grapple at his flesh and the frustratingly tight jeans that cover half of him and he laughs throatily in your ear before placing a wet kiss there. Your game has escalated into a frantic race that he is definitely winning and you just don’t fucking care anymore.  “Guess you’ll have to try harder next time.” He breathes against your throat and you still for a moment, goose bumps puckering your flesh as you pull back enough to peer incredulously at him. He laughs again and quickly kisses you before you can retort, his arms winding around your neck and pulling you effectively under until you can’t remember what you were going to say anymore.

 

Later, when you’re sprawled out on the sofa and he’s lounging with his head on your thigh you will wonder when it happened. You will heave a ragged breath and run fingers through sweat-damp hair and wonder when this man at your side had managed to best you at a game that you hadn’t even really started yet. Your fingertips will trace over his beautifully mottled skin and you’ll tell yourself that you don’t mind, but that will really only be half-truth and you will vow right then to heed his advice; and you do.

 

_Try harder._


End file.
